


As Dead As I Was

by redpuppie



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Anorexia, Autistic Spencer Reid, Bulimia, Depression, Drug Addict Spencer Reid, Eating Disorders, Gen, Mentions of Rape, Probably forgetting something, Self-Harm, So do I, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, if you don't know if it'll trigger you don't read, major spoilers S2, minor spoilers S7, please dont use this to trigger yourself, spencer sucks at coping, tobias hankle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpuppie/pseuds/redpuppie
Summary: Spencer replaces one bad coping mechanism with another.
Kudos: 36





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”  
> ― Laurell K. Hamilton

He hustled inside. His bag hit the ground as he rushed towards the bathroom in his small apartment and sat on the floor with his back leaning against the tub. He liked small spaces, they made him feel safe. There was one door and he could watch it at all times. No one could enter it without him knowing, he kept a gun under the sink next to the bottle of… no. He couldn’t think of that now. Not now. Not now. Not now. A chill passed through him as he rubbed his arms with his hands as if to generate warmth but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to feel something that would take his mind off of things, whether it be joy or even pain, warmth wouldn’t do the trick here. Spencer’s mind flashes back to memories of him being beaten, his sleeve being pulled up, the belt around his arm-

”St-stop it!” he said out loud as if waking up from one of his many nightmares. He paused, not knowing who he was speaking to, his thoughts or Tobias. He remembers wanting to beg Tobias for another dose, but he couldn’t. His team was watching. He would rather die than have them know. Maybe he should die. He should, he really should. His fists clenched as he moved them forwards and then back against the tub as hard as he could. It hurt. He felt the pain but then the relief. He thought back to one 19 year old he talked to years ago on the job, a girl who was a victim of rape. The trail went cold until six months later the rapist found a new victim. The cases were only connected because both of the victims were found with sliced wrists outside of a playground. The first one living, the second one dead. The living girl, Victoria, had to be interviewed again. She wore long sleeves when Dr. Reid was talking to her, when her sleeve got caught on the table and pulled up a bit, the doctor tried to get a look at her wrists. The photos tacked up in the room next door only had one slash on each wrist. Her wrist was now covered in scars, more concentrated around the area of the first attack. Reid spoke up

“What happened there? I thought he only hurt your wrists once.”

“Yeah, um,” She paused “I-I've been struggling… after it happened I tried to… cut the scar out. It made it worse. Obviously, but I couldn’t stop. Sorry I’m just so stupid.”

Spencer looked her in the eyes. “You’re not stupid. When emotions get built up-” His eyes shift to see her hands “Self injury seems like a way to relieve tension, it releases dopamine, feels like a way to control what happens now, when you couldn’t control what happened then. Releasing serotonin and dopamine when injured serves as a survival mechanism, when attacked and wounded, your brain wants to convince itself that it doesn’t hurt as bad as it does. That’s why the act of self mutilation can feel painless for the first few seconds. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy can help, as well as distraction and other healthy coping mechanisms. You know, about 17 percent of adolescent females have engaged in self injurious behaviors. Often people who don’t self harm by cutting still do other damaging things to themselves on purpose to cope with trauma, such as alcoholism, fasting, or even opiates. It’s an unhealthy coping mechanism but still, it’s a coping mechanism. You just want to stop hurting, but there are better ways to do that than inflicting more damage”

Time stops. He’s back in his bathroom. Dilaudid stored under the sink. He gets up and looks in the mirror, he feels nauseous and his bones ache. He can’t tell if his nausea was a result of the anxiety or withdrawal. Either way, he heaves. Sweating. Broken. His heart does somersaults and he wants it all to stop. In an impulse he opens a drawer to grab his double edge razor blades. Spencer pulls his pants down so he’s in his boxers and sits at the edge of the tub. Pressing the razer against his thigh, unsure whether to move it. If he doesn’t move it then that makes him weak, what’s he afraid of? The pain? He’s felt worse. The addiction? It’s better than opiates. Dying? He would rather that at this point. God, he’s such a little bitch. 16 year old girls can do this but he can’t? Yeah right. He slides the blade and winces, a moment of calm follows but then regret and hatred. He does it again. He’s worthless anyway, who wants an opiate addicted FBI agent? And again. He’s fucking pathetic. And again. The team would be better off without him. He puts them in danger, he’s a liability.

His thoughts stop as he breathes a sigh of relief. He balls up some toilet paper to stop the bleeding. Follows it with a triple antibiotic and then a bandage. This part is nice, actually. He’s healing, he can take care of himself. He washes the blade and then his hands. He’s okay. Still sick, still depressed, but at least he can sleep now. He changes into nightwear, takes 2 pills of off-brand benadryl and a melatonin and lays in bed. He knows this will happen again, some people are just predisposed to addictions. He gets addicted to caffeine, sugar, people, narcotics, and now this. Doesn’t matter though. All that matters is sleep.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We love the things that destroy us, because in that destruction we truly feel alive.”  
> ― Robert Pobi

The sun rises and he wakes up, groggy. His cuts scrape against his pants as he puts them on. The pain reminds him of last night. The memory almost confuses him, it’s hazy. Maybe his brain blocked some of it out in a last ditch effort to save him from himself. Doesn’t matter. He goes to the bathroom to pee, the razer is still on the counter. After he washes his hands he grabs a book from the shelf. “The Narrative of John Smith” By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Picks up the blade and puts it in between page 184 and 185, then inserts the book in his bag. Stupid bitch, he only cut one time and he’s already dependent. He hates himself for being his own enabler. He could have left the book at home, could have tossed the blade. There were better options than this and he chose none of them. He leaves for work without breakfast. He’s told himself many times not to do that because of all of the violence he sees in a day, he needs to eat in order to not pass out. It’s been a couple weeks since his seizure and he’s able to walk normally again but he is still afraid of having some side effects. He hated the feeling of having a seizure. The absolute loss of control and the humiliation after. When he hugged Hotchner, he prayed that he wouldn’t feel the wetness in his pants or how he smelled of vomit and dead fish. He experienced death and he smelled like it too. Spencer liked the BAU because he could save people, he could be a part of something and always have a say but in that shed… he couldn’t. 

He wasn’t hungry for lunch and eating felt almost like a pleasure he didn’t deserve. He was too tired to eat, too upset to eat, too broken to eat, too worthless to eat. He focused all his attention to his work, people were being kidnapped, raped, and murdered as he sat there. When he goes home tonight they’ll still be in danger. He can’t save everyone. He knows that but he still feels that unless he does, he’ll always be worthless. He looks towards the book in his bag. It temps him but he resists. If he keeps to his work everything will be okay. He just has to keep working. Just keep working. Spencer can’t seem to concentrate and the thought upsets him. His brain is all he has, the only thing that can help others, the only thing that makes him different from others, when it feels clouded it makes him feel uneasy. Water, he needs water. His legs are numb from sitting so long and his feet get tangled with the chair which follows him down as he hits the floor. Prentis runs towards him and he takes her hand to be helped up. She asks him something he can’t recall. “Are you okay” or “Do you need anything” or maybe even “Did you pass out?” He didn’t pass out but everything is so confusing right now he can’t answer her. He didn’t know the question. Then he feels his feet on the ground and his back in his chair. Emily is still concerned. “Water” he mumbles as he tries to get up again. “No, no. you stay there. I’ll get you some water. She comes back with a bottle from the vending machine. He takes the cap off and holds it in his left hand as he drinks with his right, then puts the bottle down and presses the cap into his wrist and rotates it to create a red circle. No, goddamnit, make this stop make it stop make everything stop. He reaches for the book in his bag. Emily is no longer there. Did she say bye? Was she worried? Everything feels like he’s fast forwarding through time and is only able to see bits and pieces. Spencer fumbles the blade before palming it in his hand like he learned to do with his magic tricks, careful not to slice his palm. He goes to the bathroom, last time he was here he tried to dose himself. The memory hits. It hits, and it hurts. He goes to the biggest stall and gives into everything he was hoping not to become. 

He leaves the stall. Washes his face. Goes to his desk. Drinks his water, and continues his work. He doesn’t feel good, but he also doesn’t feel like the world is collapsing and he doesn’t feel nothing either. He feels shame, but not regret. Shame can wait. Now is time for his job. The afternoon slugs by. There’s banter between his friends at the end of the day but he forgot how to participate in it, did he ever know how? Did he ever fit in at all? He’s a different person than he was a few weeks ago. That Spencer never would have become addicted to narcotics, never would have had an anxiety attack at work, and never would have self harmed. He goes home and eats leftover chinese food from the fridge. The next morning comes too soon and without much sleep. Same thing again and again. Either paperwork or pain awaits him today at work, Maybe both. Is this worth it? Maybe he should call in sick. He gets up anyway and goes to work. There’s no case today so he drones on as usual until lunch. He eats a grilled chicken sandwich sipping water after every bite. Just after lunch Hotchner calls Reid into his office. 

“Reid, you’ve been off of your game recently”

“I’m uh, I’m sorry, sir.” Spencer wants to explain himself, say he’s been going through something, deny anything’s wrong, scream and fight, but he stands still and silent, trying not to show weakness.

“You haven’t been yourself since the incident with Hankle.” He shuffles the papers on his desk in what looks like a failed attempt to bring order “I’m not stupid, I know why, so I’m giving you a choice. Seven days off work and a visit to a psychologist about once a week until you’re able to maintain a state of mental well-being…” he stops  
“Or…?”

“Or you get removed from the bureau” Hotch made eye contact with those last few words, Spencer broke it quickly. Eye contact was never his forte. Maybe he can’t handle being out on the field anymore but this team, this team is his only reason for life. 

“I’ll get my things” He said

“You’ve made your choice?”

“I have.” He turned to the door, “I’ll see you in a week”

Eyes followed him as he made an exit and the wait for the elevator was more agonizing than usual. He didn’t like elevators. His nerves get him. He turns to the stairs instead and goes down. He just needed to get home as soon as possible. He received a text from Hotch on the way home with a list of psychologists and psychiatrists that work with the FBI. The message ended with “Focus on yourself for now, we’ll be here when you’re ready to come back.” 

The thought hits him, When Hotch said “I know why” was he referring to the drugs, or the-

When he arrived at his house he was furious with himself. He’s such a dumbass! The food in his stomach turns into regret, begging to be noticed. He didn’t deserve to eat, fuckfuckfuck. He knew the food wasn’t the problem here. It was the fact he was too fucked in the head to do his job. His anxiety made him nauseous but he couldn’t throw up, he put his hands around his stomach and tried to force the food up and he only dry heaved. He would feel so much better if it just left him. He just wanted the old food gone, he wouldn’t feel sick if he was empty. The pros outweighed the cons in this frantic and desperate moment so he put his index and middle finger down his throat and refused to remove them until he was empty again. 

His body felt weak, his heart fluttered, but his mind didn’t race. He didn’t have an eating disorder, he only did this to stop the nausea, not to get skinny, not to feel in control, just to feel okay again. To get homeostasis back. He washed his hands, cleaned vomit off the toilet, flushed twice. He took off his clothes and stepped in the shower with water too hot than he liked but whatever. This is just what it is. The room swayed a bit and the wetness on the floor caught him off his balance so he sat. cupped his hands together and rinsed his mouth with the water he collected. His head felt hazy and his heart fluttered. It would pass soon, it had to.


	3. Three

“How many more times before they won't ever recover the pieces of themselves that this job takes?”  
-Aaron Hotchner

Spencer sends a text to Hotchner saying he scheduled an appointment with a therapist for tomorrow. Maybe this is a waste of time and he’s too far gone. No- he can’t think like that. Thinking that is death. He doesn’t want to die, does he? He knows he thinks about death often but not in a planned out way. He gets anxious and rattles off statistics in his head to bring some order to his thoughts hoping one will calm him.. 

“The highest suicide rates in the US are among Whites, American Indians and Alaska Natives.”

**No. ******

********

********

“Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the US for all ages.”

**No. ******

********

****

“Depression affects 20-25% of Americans ages 18+ in a given year.”

**No. ******

********

********

“Only half of all Americans experiencing an episode of major depression receive treatment.”

**No. ******

********

********

“Suicide among males is 4x’s higher than among females. Male deaths represent 79% of all US suicides.”

**No. ******

********

********

“80% - 90% of people that seek treatment for depression are treated successfully using therapy and/or medication.”

Maybe, keep going.

“Every suicide leaves an estimated six or more people who are heavily effected by the death of their loved one”

Yes.  
Six or more people.  
How many would he have?  
He lists the names in his notebook. His handwriting is shakier than usual.

Derek

Prentis

JJ

Garcia 

Rossi

Hotch

Mom

Seven. Seven people who would hurt. That’s above average. The team would do fine without him if he didn’t exist but suicide isn’t just fading out of existence. What if Hotch quits? What if Derek blames himself? What if his mom follows him?

His mom. Suicide is the biggest risk factor in people with schizophrenia. If he killed himself, it would destroy her. She’d expect to meet him in heaven, he wouldn’t be there. He knew The Bible from when his mom read it to him as a child but as he grew up he only believed facts, Statistics. The odds of that specific deity existing was slim to none. If God knew what happened on this earth, if he was half as loving as he claimed to be, we would have been wiped out long ago. 

But then how would you explain what he saw? The light, the voice, the warmth.

Dopamine. When people die their brains are flooded with dopamine and an increase of gamma oscillations. That…that has to be it. There’s no God, no Heaven, not even darkness. Just nothing. 

Compared to the alternative being the unknown, the idea of nothing is comforting. 

People laugh and have dinner parties as others are being raped, tortured and killed. Spencer has seen evil, He’s fought evil. If he died, people would still be in those situations. Only this time, no one would be there. Killing himself would be killing all the people who he has potential to save. He couldn’t let himself die yet. He has his friends, that’s his stick to fight with. He’s in a constant battle, stick against scythe and he’s still alive. Does that mean he’s winning? 

He puts down his pen and notepad and makes a sandwich. Each bite almost hurts and he counts each time he chews but he finishes it, waits out the fullness, and lays down on the couch. Today was hard but he survived. Tomorrow will be harder, He’ll still survive. 

He wakes up, changes from old clothes to new, his pants slide up his legs with no pain as they rub on his thighs. He’s healing. It’s almost symbolic of today. He’s nervous but okay. Nervous but okay. ~~Nervous but~~ okay. He’s okay. Deep breaths. 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are many ways of getting strong, sometimes talking is the best way.”  
> ― Andre Agassi

When he meets his therapist, She introduces herself as Autumn, and holds out her hand to be shook. He almost calls himself Doctor Reid but stops, she’s a doctor too but dropped her title for a minute to be more personal. The only reason he introduces himself as Doctor Reid is to gain respect immediately. Gideon told him that it was the best way to prove himself without doing anything. She dropped her title, perhaps to make things easier for him. He doesn’t have to prove himself right now. Not here.

“Spencer” He says, with his hands in his pockets and does a short, fidgety, bow and a half smile.

“Oh, I don’t shake hands” That sentence never gets less awkward. He sits on the chair across from the other doctor.

Autumn sits by her desk and takes out her notepad “So, tell me about yourself”

Reid tells her about the man with DID, the drugs, the beatings. He stares at his lap with his hands together.  
“And uh, I’ve been... cutting(?) recently” The pitch of his voice rises at the word “cutting” as if he’s asking a question. Should he phrase it like that? “Non-suicidal self injury” is what it goes by in the DSM-5, But “self harm” sounds more human. Not like a robot, not like him. Cutting sounds like he’s a teenager. He doesn’t like doing things that seem childish, He grew up quickly due to his mind and his mom. As an 11 year old he was smarter than the average teenager but people saw him as a child. If he ever did anything childish he’d get snide comments about how kid genius isn’t as smart as everyone thinks. 

Autumn noticed as he appeared to get lost in thought. Lost in anxiety. Overthink.

. “I just didn’t want to become a drug addict and thought with my job and all that… uh- self injury would be more… sustainable.” He stuttered. Idiot.

“...but you’re here so you think it might not be” Autumn infers

“I’ve gotten worse. Sleeping a-and eating are harder. I- I don’t know where to go or what to do.”

“Have you had thoughts about ending your life?” Spencer knew he’d be asked this eventually

“No, I have not” He answered, careful not to hesitate.

“I’ll take your word for it” The psychologist looks at her notes “I would Like to assign you some homework. You seem like you like to read”  
“Yes ma’am I have an eidetic memory” 

“Great, I would like you to pick a book off this shelf...” She gestures to a shelf beside her “and read it. Write down what you plan on doing with what the book says.”

Spencer walks over to the books and starts skimming, they were all psychology based but not in the technical way he was used to. They seemed to be about coping mechanisms and how to think about his feelings, a bit childish, he thought but he understood this lady didn’t want to read a 50 page thesis or anything. He finds a book that seems interesting enough. He thought that 10 minutes of homework seemed reasonable for a first session.

“I want to know how your brain works so just pay attention to your own thoughts regarding the reading.

“Got it.”

“That’s it for the day, I’ll see you next week”

The bus ride home was slow. He thought about reading the book but couldn’t bring himself to start. It would only take 10 minutes, It doesn’t make sense that he would rather do anything else. Is this a symptom of depression? Anxiety? Laziness? No, not laziness. He is sick, he went through a trauma, he wants to improve but that involves acknowledging the problem and basing his thoughts on facts rather than feelings. He needs to treat himself as he would a survivor of a crime. He is a survivor, a self destructive, unstable, survivor who’s going through a ~~nervous breakdown~~ major depressive episode but still, a survivor. 

A part of him died that day but he was too busy mourning that he forgot that the rest of him was still alive. Realizing this won’t fix him but it gives him a place to start. He opens the book and starts reading but each page takes him almost four times longer to read. His brain feels cloudy but he keeps at it. It’s a little accomplishment that means everything right now. He made lines on a page of his notepad so he could write his notes in Cornell style. The book had a chapter about doing little bits of chores at a time when it’s too difficult to do it fully. 

The thing about being a gifted child is you learn that if you can’t do something perfectly then you avoid doing it, getting an zero percent is almost better than an 80 when a zero means you might have gotten a perfect score if you tried. If you try your hardest and barely get a B, it says more about you. 

When he gets home to his dark room in the dark building on the dark end of the street, the illusion stops. Sometimes the hardest part about going home is knowing what there is to come back to. His apartment feels small and cluttered, his trash is full with Styrofoam cups that used to store instant ramen. Spencer ties the garbage bag but leaves it in the can. There’s no point in trying to force himself to bring it outside. As he leaves the kitchen he turns the light on. He turns on every light in the house before going to bed early. He didn’t want to be in the dark anymore. Sleeping is the only thing he has energy to do. The faster you go, the harder you crash. 

And boy, did he crash.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To lose confidence in one’s body is to lose confidence in oneself.”  
> ― Simone de Beauvoir

He wakes up five hours later, when he opens his eyes the light assaults him. It’s 3 AM, too early. Did he eat dinner yesterday? Lunch? Anything? He pours himself a can of tomato soup. 220 calories for the can. Could be worse. As it’s heating he goes to the bathroom and weighs himself. Weightloss is a symptom of depression, but he hasn’t been losing weight, has he? 170\. The number on the scale is 4 pounds less since before Hankle took him. He uses the toilet then weighs himself again. Four pounds easily turns to six. Now the number clocks in at 168. He knows two pounds isn’t a lot but it changes it from having a 7 to a 6 and that’s enough. Wait, why is he happy? People thought he was skinny to begin with. He looks in the mirror. People exaggerate when they look at him, they call him twig, stick, beanpole. Some say he could be a model. He shakes his head at the thought. Models are attractive, he looks like a corpse but feels twice as bad as anyone could visually tell. Maybe if he looked as bad as he felt people would care. 

The microwave beeps from the other room. He handles his bowl of soup, moving it to the table. It’s heavy. He grabs a spoon and begins eating. When he’s done he gets up from the table. He feels sluggish and bloated. He’s sure he gained 8 pounds from eating. He weighs himself for the third time. 171. He sees his stomach, it is borderline grotesque. After someone dies they bloat up, maybe he’s already dead in every way that matters. He hates the feeling of being full, it nauseates him. He remembers a couple days ago, throwing up to feel better. It’ll have to work again. He’s a worthless, ugly, pathetic, crazy, waste of space. In a panic, he kicks the scale out of the way as he forces himself to reject food into the toilet. He can’t tell if he’s vomiting tomato or blood. Does it matter? Fingernails scratch the back of his raw throat. The acidity of tomato makes it burn even more but damn, it’s cathartic. He’s empty yet again.

If only it stopped there. 

Three days passed. He eats, he pukes, he eats, he pukes, he eats, he pukes. 

He wasn’t eating a lot at a time. A yogurt, a cup of noodles, maybe. His brain wouldn’t let him keep anything down. Four times a day he was coated in vomit and once a day he took a razor to his skin over the hatred of himself. Why did he let himself stoop this low? He called his therapist for an emergency meeting for the next day. When he got up he made himself look presentable, showered, brushed his teeth, skipped breakfast so he could look and feel his best. If he lets his guard down he’ll end up eating the whole kitchen. Today he’s at 165. He’s dehydrated and probably has thrown up all the water he takes in. His skin is dry, he looks tired, everything hurts. He looks so much worse than he used to but at least his ribs show. He already died, there in the shed, his brain stopped functioning, and now his body is wasting away. His heart still beat but if he let himself look like a skeleton, then maybe the person in the mirror wouldn’t look so much like a stranger. His body would match his mind. Dead, like the rest of him. Dead, like he should be.

He puts on a cardigan, grabs his bag with Autumn’s book in it, and starts walking for the bus. He’s lost in his head the whole time there. He’s been lost recently but he has to get his act together before he goes back to work in a few days. The waiting room is quiet and the receptionist is wearing a shirt with flowers on it. Asclepias Tuberosa. Appropriate for a place of healing. Autumn eventually comes out of her office and nods at him. He is silently grateful she didn’t say his name. Or worse, call him “Doctor Reid.” He looks like a sick college kid, not a doctor. He’s a disgrace to the doctorate program. 

Autumn and Spencer get to their chairs and she asks him why he scheduled a session outside of his usual schedule.  
“I was okay for like, a day, but things got worse and I didn’t eat much but when I did…” He stopped and rubbed his hands on his sleeves and rocked in his seat. 

“You’ve been making yourself throw up.”

“Yeah,” he looks at her, “How’d you know”

“The glands in your cheeks are swollen, but I would have ignored that if it wasn’t for your hands”

“M-my hands?” he stuttered

“your index and middle finger have small injuries by the knuckles and the skin on the back of your right hand is visibly rough and damaged while your left hand is pristine.”

“Oh.”

“How often have you been doing it?”

“Ten times so far”

“Okay, are you open to going to a psychiatrist to get some meds? Prozac seems to help a lot of people who struggle like you” 

“Fluoxetine.” He’s nervous and is looking at his lap while tapping his legs, thoughts running and he recalls the medicine and rattles off facts relating to it as a way to assure himself his brain still works. “SSRI, half life of three days, It treats depression, OCD, anxiety, and bul-bulimia nervosa” He pauses. It’s the only medicine that treats bulimia, this must mean…”

“Do I have that? Am I bulimic?”

“I wouldn’t make a diagnosis yet because this has only been happening a few days but we would like to nip it in the bud if we can” 

“Yeah, uh okay, thank you”

“Is that a good first step to solve the issue that caused you to schedule this meeting”

“Y-yeah, it is” He almost smiled. Almost, he was getting treatment but still wasn’t there yet.

Seconds pass 

“Oh, I uh read the book” 

“Really? That was quick”

Reid could brag about his reading speed but it took him 4 times longer than usual so if that really something to brag about? 

He realizes this and recoils. 

“Yeah, I read quickly.” 

“What were your thoughts?” 

“I think that my identity is tied to perfectionism so I have to learn to break free of that pattern”

“Did you put any of the recommendations in the book into practice” 

“I did.”

“Excellent. That’s what I like to hear. For your next homework assignment, you can pick. Either pick another book, or write a journal”

“A journal?” 

“There have been studies about how helpful they are, as I’m sure you know, Doctor” She smirked. “I’ll see you in four days.” 

He never told her he had a doctorate. It must be in his charts. She knew he had a PhD, maybe she knew about all of them, but she still introduced herself as Autumn and left it to Spencer to decide if he would follow suit. Did he make the right choice? Quit. Overthinking. Things

He left and hit his head with his both fists three times then shook his hands as if there was water on him he needed to shake off of them. Stimming. Damn it, another thing he hated about himself. Autism was the thing that made him smart, without it no one would like him, to them, he’s nothing more than a computer. A tool. He could be replaced with a search engine. Worthless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking the next chapter can be a journal entry but don't have much planned beyond that. If anyone thinks of something that can happen plz comment.
> 
> Maybe it'll revolve around a case
> 
> This fic is my own coping mechanism and I write instead of relapsing or doing English essays. It's meant to heal me, not hurt you. please don't read if it's triggering


End file.
